


A Very Night Moose Christmas

by GrayJay



Series: Rex Racer on the Final Turn [6]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Night Moose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:23:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayJay/pseuds/GrayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The lights from the flimsy artificial tree cast a faint glow, and that’s the first sign something’s really wrong, not just in his head.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Seasonal fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Night Moose Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place between [Chapter 163](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2356574/chapters/5970335) and [Chapter 164](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2356574/chapters/5970347) of [Rex Racer on the Final Turn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2356574/chapters/5200295); and contains some minor spoilers for Chapter 164. Even if you're not following RRotFT, I'd recommend dipping back to [Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2356574/chapters/5200295) and [Chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2356574/chapters/5200301) for some relevant Night Moose context.
> 
> Merry (Belated) X-mas,  
> GJ

Scott pulls into Westbridge before dawn on what’s technically the 27th, and all he wants is to fall into bed and sleep until he wakes up. The windows are dark, and he feels briefly guilty that he’s relieved, because this way at least he can put off dealing with Alex until the morning.

The lock sticks--it always sticks, and he's been putting off talking to the landlord about it for months now--and he’s swearing under his breath and hoping the rattling doesn’t wake Alex; so it’s not until the door pops open that he realize that something’s wrong. He’s not sure what--the place just smells _off_ , and Scott tries to brush it off as leftover nerves from the mission, but he can’t shake it. The lights from the flimsy artificial tree cast a faint glow, and that’s the first sign something’s really wrong, not just in his head--because they’re too low; and after a moment, he realizes it’s because the tree's lying on its side, on the floor.

“Alex?” he says, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to panic.

There’s no answer.

He makes his way through the dark living room by the faint glow of the Christmas lights. The futon couch is open, slept in, but Alex isn’t there. “Alex?” he calls, again, louder. Nothing.

The kitchen is more an alcove than a separate room, but most of all, it’s a defensible corner. Scott feels his way around the counter one-handed with the other on his glasses, until the hand on the counter runs into something soft and sticky. He bites back a shout, lunges for the light switch.

The kitchen--the _whole apartment_ , he can see as the light filters out--is a mess. There are splotches of something thick and dark--blood? mud?--all over the floor, and scraps of what looks like fur--some white, some matted and dark. He’s trying to figure out what the hell could have happened--if a wild animal got in, or if it was something more, if someone's figured out the connection between the new kid at the radio station and the X-Men and this means something bigger and darker--and then his eyes finally adjust to the light, and the splotches on the floor starts to resolve into moose tracks.

“God damnit,” Scott says, aloud. He slumps into the wall and bursts out laughing from relief, and a moment later, Alex emerges from the bedroom, half a candy cane in his mouth, grinning like he’s just invented birthdays and wearing a Santa hat smeared with something Scott _really_ hopes is washable.

“Merry Christmas,” Scott tells him, still laughing. “You _unbelievable asshole_.”

Alex laughs. “Merry Christmas, jerk.”

Scott manages to dodge what’s either a hug or a tackle and steal the Santa hat off Alex’s head before turning on the living room light to survey the rest of the damage. His apartment is a wreck: furniture overturned, moose tracks and scraps of Santa suit strewn all over the floor. He’s not sure whether to be furious or entertained, and settles on impressed.

“You are completely insane,” he tells Alex.

Alex shrugs and crunches the end of his candy cane. “How was your work thing?”

It had been awful: a newly manifested mutant flooding her house with some kind of corrosive gas; parents dead, sister and responding officers in the ICU; but by some miracle, someone in the local Sheriff’s department had actually _thought_ instead of shooting, and called the X-Men’s emergency hotline--these days re-routed to Scott’s cell--and Scott was so used to being the one who could take Christmas calls that he’d said he was on his way before remembering that these days he had family, too.

He’d ended up having to call Reed and Sue Richards for help--felt like a jerk for dragging them away from Franklin over the holidays, but even once they figured out how to contain the kid’s powers, someone was going to have to take her home at the end of the day; and if the Fantastic Four weren’t the X-Men--well, at least they weren’t the Avengers. So Reed had thrown together a basic containment suit, and Scott had talked the kid down from behind Sue’s force field, wishing the whole time that Xavier was there to do it right. In the car on the way back, she’d fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, and the look on her face after he told her that she’d be staying with the Fantastic Four, not the X-Men, made him feel like the worst person in the world.

“It’s okay,” he’d reassured the kid. “They’re good people, and they have the facilities to help you.” Told her Dr. Richards was the best guy in the world to help figure out how to manage her powers, promised that they wouldn’t make any big decisions without calling him first; quizzed her on the X-Men’s emergency number until he was sure she had it memorized.

Sue had caught him on the way out, said all the right things, asked all the right questions; but he’d still thought about the kid all the way back, isolated in her containment suit, scared of herself, twelve years old and already racking up a body count--not like Sue and Reed and the rest of them, who were dangerous because something had happened to them, but dangerous like Scott, because of what she was.

“It was okay,” he tells Alex, settling gingerly on the edge of the futon, trying not to get whatever the goop is on anything that isn't already goopy. “Do I even want to ask what this is?”

“Santa’s blood,” says Alex. “Duh.” He swipes a finger through one of the moose tracks and licks it off.

Scott pokes suspiciously at another splotch. He can smell the chocolate before he tastes it. “I hate you so much.”

“For the record, it is fucking impossible to find real fake blood on short notice in December,” Alex says, flopping down on the futon next to Scott. “But I figured, red filters--” He taps his temple.

“Oh,” says Scott. “Yeah. Like old movies. Good thinking.” Tries really hard not to think about ants, about how to get chocolate syrup out of the cracks between the floorboards; because it’s Christmas (or as close as they’re going to get, closer than Scott’s really gotten in years), and Alex is here, and he’s already fucked this one up badly enough.

Alex yawns, and says, “So. Christmas, right?”

“Right,” says Scott. “Christmas.” His mind’s still half at the Baxter building, but even if it weren’t, it’s not like he-- “So. How does this work?”

Alex rolls over enough to swat halfheartedly at him. “You are the worst. _The worst._ ”

“Good thing you’re here, then,” Scott tells him.

“Me and Night Moose,” says Alex.

* * *

Scott wakes up first, and for a moment, he’s not sure where he is, until he realizes he’s fallen asleep on the futon next to Alex, who’s curled around his new jacket like it’s a teddy bear. “Dork,” Scott whispers, and reaches over to brush Alex’s hair out of his face.

“Nerd,” Alex mutters sleepily.

“Go back to sleep,” Scott tells him. Runs his hand through his hair, and realizes he’s still wearing the syrup-sticky Santa hat he stole from Alex the night before. Thinks he should clear up the wrapping paper, right the tree, unplug the lights. Thinks about the can of Pledge under the sink, whether he’s got enough paper towels to make a dent in the stuff on the floor; then goes to the kitchen and makes pancakes instead.


End file.
